The Hawthorne Effect
by GirlNextDoor
Summary: Dean and Sam investigate a carnival where the fortune teller's prophecies are scarily accurate. But is she telling the future, or creating it? Never argue with this woman... she'll do whatever it takes to prove herself right. Even if the outcome is fatal.
1. Ace Of Spades

_Avondale, Colorado_

Though he would never admit it, Billy Harmond had always been a bit of a pushover. Sure, he had that macho exterior most guys in their late teens were sporting these days, but deep down, he really couldn't say no. Especially not to Linda. As she tugged playfully on his coat sleeve and peered up at him with her wide, imploring eyes, he didn't have the heart - or the balls - to refuse.

Recognizing his classic signs of submission, Linda showed her thanks with a toothy grin and began leading him towards one of the more brightly colored spectacles in the ocean of tents that was the annual Avondale Carnival.

"I know you think fortune telling is silly..." Linda reasoned as she dragged her boyfriend of eight-and-a-half months through the dry, crumpled leaves and the crowds of people. "And sure, maybe it is. But it's _fun_, Billy."

"Yeah, okay." Billy sighed. "If it means that much to you, we can let a crystal ball tell us what kind of car we'll be driving at forty-five."

Failing to see his sarcasm - or just choosing to ignore it - Linda gave his hand a quick squeeze and ducked inside the marquee. After a snort of would-be rebellion, Billy followed.

Inside the tent, it looked even smaller than it had from the outside. Pale beams of light forced their way through the folds of the heavy, hanging fabric which created the walls. Every support beam was adorned with purple and orange gauze intertwined with beads and trinkets. Tendrils of lemongrass incense snaked around the couple, delivering a musty yet strangely fresh aroma. Ten seconds in, and Billy was already thinking about turning around and leaving.

"Finally, some customers." The voice of a young woman cut through the thick silence, as the source emerged from behind a beaded curtain hanging in the back. "I thought I was gonna have to pack up early."

"You're the fortune teller?" Billy couldn't help inquiring; he was a little surprised to say the least.

The young woman - a brunette, as it turned out - put her hands on her hips, looking amused. "Let me guess. You were expecting an old woman in a shawl. Possibly sporting a peg-leg?"

Billy grinned. "You're close, but my money was on the glass eye."

The woman allowed herself another little laugh. "That would have been my aunt. Totally a horror-movie fortune teller, she was. It was almost cliché." After a moment, she snapped out of her tangent, realizing there were living, breathing, _paying_ customers standing in her tent - not something she was accustomed to lately. She could already hear the _'ka-ching'_ of the cash register.

A welcoming smile broke onto her face. "Alright then, let's get started." She took up her usual position behind the card table, motioning for them to sit in the chairs opposite her. When they did, she retrieved a deck of cards from an ornately carved box to her left.

"How much do you know about fortune telling?" The woman began her sales pitch, slipping into the slightly misty voice she used when working.

"What, like Tarot?" Linda asked, noting the cards.

"Not quite." The fortune teller winked, showing them the deck. "While the principles are relatively similar, you'll notice that this is and ordinary deck of playing cards... not Tarot."

"How're you supposed to tell the future with those?" Billy asked, always the skeptic.

"Well, much like Tarot, each of these cards has a meaning." She continued to explain. "When I ask you to choose a card, your subconscious mind will draw you to the one which best describes the events manifesting for you in the near-future."

She'd said it like it was science. Billy's manners prevented him from speaking his thoughts aloud, although he did purse his lips a little too tight and raise his eyebrows a little too high when he replied "Uh-huh. Neat.". Which effectively translated into; _This is a load of bullcrap_.

The fortune teller smiled wryly, expertly fanning the cards out in front of her on the table. "Please, pick one. The first one you see."

Billy and Linda both reached forward and chose a card, flipping them around to examine.

"Two of clubs." Linda announced, showing the woman. "What does that mean?"

The fortune teller's brow knotted, and she sighed sympathetically. "Oh, honey... the Two of Clubs represents loss of a loved one."

"What?" Linda looked worried.

"I'm sorry. Are any of your relatives sick?" She continued to sell her act shamelessly, and in the other chair, Billy began to fume. It disgusted him how she could lead people to believe such terrible things as that for the sake of a few dollars.

"No, everyone in my family is really healthy..." Linda replied after searching her brain for a few moments. "Although, my Grandmother's getting on in years. She's 86 on Friday."

The woman reached forward and squeezed Linda's hand reassuringly, the way a doctor would after telling someone they had been diagnosed with cancer. "You may want to say goodbye to your Grandmother while you have the chance."

Linda looked shocked, and Billy growled. He'd had enough of this woman and her sick sales tactics. "That's bullshit!" He shouted, earning a disapproving glare. "You can't tell people crap like that."

"Let me see your card." The fortune teller didn't raise her voice.

Billy fixed her with a cold glare, considering storming out of the tent. He glanced at Linda, who smiled encouragingly, although still looking a bit shaken. Finally, Billy sighed and, grumbling, flipped his card over.

"Ace of Spades."

The fortune teller gasped, one bejeweled hand flying to her chest. "Oh my God."

Billy rolled his eyes. "Lemme guess... the plague? Locusts?"

The woman shook her head, gauze scarf flowing back and forth. "I'm... I'm sorry."

"For what?"

For a moment, the woman almost looked fearful. She quickly snatched back the card and shuffled it into the center of the deck, replacing them in the carved box. She looked at Billy for a long second before finally opening her mouth. "The Ace of Spades... is the Death Card."

------------------------

"Billy, _please_ stay at my house tonight." Linda begged, struggling to keep up with Billy's long strides as he stormed across the fairground. "I'm worried about you. Please!"

"Babe, it was a stupid five-dollar fortune teller." Billy grumbled. "It doesn't mean anything."

Billy left the fair and started down the sidewalk. The street was lined with the vehicles which hadn't been able to get a parking spot at the carnival. He looked around, trying to remember how far down he had left his car.

"They wouldn't say things like that if they weren't real." Linda insisted. "Billy, I don't want you to die."

Finally, Billy stopped alongside his mustard-yellow hatchback, and faced Linda. He could see that she was worried... really, _really_ worried. On the inside, he cursed that woman for putting such horrible ideas in her head, but on the outside, he just smiled.

"I'm _not_ gonna die, Linda." He slipped his hand into hers and intertwined their fingers. "And if it's that important to you, I'll stay with you tonight. But I promise, nothing's gonna happen to me."

Linda smiled, and kissed him, savoring the smell of his aftershave and the warmth of his arms around her. She knew he was right, of course, but that fortune teller had just scared her so much. She couldn't imagine a life without Billy.

"You promise?" Linda repeated, needing to hear him say it once more.

"Yeah babe, I promise." He gave her hand one last quick squeeze. "Nothing's gonna happen to me."

But poor Billy, he never was very good at keeping his promises. Just like the driver of the bus that was coming down that one-way street, speeding just a little, clearly wasn't very good at swerving. But Linda, poor, terrified Linda, as she watched the vehicle make impact and then heard the sickening thud and crunch that played like an echo, over and over in her head for years after, she was damn good at screaming.


	2. Suspicions Arise

"Sam."

"What?"

"SAM."

"WHAT?" Sam jerked his attention away from the newspaper article he had spread out on the small, candy-striped table of the roadside diner, his brother's voice finally getting through. With his eyes, Dean motioned towards a young woman standing beside their table, facing them with a notepad and a somewhat impatient smile.

"Can I get you anything, _sir_?" The waitress asked him, and judging by her tone, it wasn't for the first time.

Sam's cheeks flushed, embarrassed. "Oh, sorry." He turned his attention towards the menu. "Uh, what's today's salad?"

The waitress sighed, accustomed to recognizing a difficult customer. "Red onion, diced apple, gherkins, lettuce and Italian dressing."

"Hmm..." Sam considered the menu again, brows knotted in serious debate. The woman's smile grew tighter, mirroring Dean's, who finally pried the menu out of his brother's grip and handed it to the waitress along with his own. "He'll have a cheeseburger."

"Thank God." The woman sighed in relief, and returned to the kitchen with the orders.

Dean braced himself, taking his brother's tightly pursed lips as a sign of the impending bitchfest.

"Come on, you've gotta stop doing that." Sam whined.

"Fine." Dean agreed. "I'll let you order your own meal when you can do it in less than ten minutes." Opting to retain the use of all his limbs, Dean quickly changed the subject. "So, anything?" He nodded towards the newspaper.

Sam was suddenly focused again. Pointing out an article, he turned the paper towards his brother. "What do you think?"

After a few moments, Dean looked up from the article and shrugged. "Kid was hit by a bus."

"Read further down." Sam instructed. "His girlfriend seemed to think there was more to it than that."

Dean's eyes scanned the rest of the article, as he read aloud; "_Police were not able to get a description of the bus or the driver from any witnesses, however ex-girlfriend Linda Rogers, 19, says she blames the accident on a fortune-teller from this afternoon's carnival. Only minutes earlier, Rogers claims they went to the woman to have their fortune told, where the victim drew the card which had been referred to as 'the Death Card'. Police are not investigating the claims_."

Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow with a sigh. "I dunno, dude. We might wanna look for a few more smoking guns before we jump on this one."

"What do you mean?" Sam was adamant. "We've looked into things that raised far fewer eyebrows."

"This doesn't say anything, Sam." Dean reasoned. "For all we know, it could have been a suicide. Or an ordinary hit-and-run."

"But what if it wasn't?" Sam insisted. "What if it was something worse, a vengeful spirit?"

"Uh... your burgers?" The waitress was back, holding two plates and staring at them with a concerned grimace. Clearly she'd overheard. Dean flashed her a grin, turning on the charm. He was used to getting them out of situations like this.

"Parapsychology major." He explained simply.

The waitress seemed to buy it, although still fixed them with a wary sideways glance as she placed both burgers on the table and hurried away. Dean watched her for a second, then turned back to face his brother.

"This happened only a few blocks away." Sam pressed, making sure he kept his voice low this time. "We even passed the carnival on our way through. It wouldn't be hard to just check it out."

"Fine." Dean gave in, picking up his cheeseburger and biting into it. "But if it turns out there's nothing supernatural at work here, you _do_ know I'm gonna rub your face in it, right?"

Sam couldn't fight the small tug at the corner of his mouth. "Oh yeah." He replied. "I know."

-----------------------

The sight of a 1967 Chevrolet Impala pulling up alongside the road wasn't something the villagers were used to. Small town, small cars; that was the rule, unwritten though it was. As the two brothers pushed open the doors and stepped out, they could sense the tension. There were only a few other vehicles lined up along the curb, and a mother pushing her baby in a stroller on the other side of the road. The carnival, occupying a large field to their right, was still there, proudly filling the wide expanse with an array of brightly colored tents. Although, a clever observation by the Winchester brothers; something was missing.

"Just _how_ old was that paper, Sammy?" Dean asked, eyeing the completely deserted fair.

"It was this morning's, the report was from yesterday." Sam was equally baffled. "I don't get it, where is everyone? These carnivals normally last for several days."

Dean glanced around for someone to ask, and spotted a large, middle-aged man, stuffed into a sheriff's uniform. He started towards him, gesturing for Sam to do the same. "Let's see if Officer Krispy Kreme can shed some light."

As they neared him, Dean put on his best 'eager tourist' face, and Sam followed suit.

"Can I help you two?" The man was clearly operating under a façade of his own, smiling and trying to looks as helpful as possible. Dean mentally rolled his eyes. Like the guy had anything better to do than sip coffee and chow down on half price donuts.

"Actually, you can. We were just on our way to the Carnival... and, well," He gestured to the deserted field with a highly transparent chuckle. "Did we come too late?" Dean's 'I'm-a-pleasant-citizen-just-looking-for-directions' voice almost made Sam snort. Thankfully for both of them, he was able to cover it up with a convincing sneeze.

The Sheriff suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Oh... you didn't hear about the Harmond kid?"

"Well, actually -" Sam began, but his brother cut him off.

"Nope." Dean feigned ignorance. "What about him?"

"He was hit by a bus, just down there." The Sheriff pointed a little down the road. "Seemed like an accident, but his girlfriend accused the fair's fortune teller of having something to do with it. Of course, her claims hold no evidence, but it's still not good for business, as you can imagine."

"No indeed." Dean continued to convincingly sell his act. "So the carnival's been shut down?"

"Oh no, just put on hold for a few days." The Sheriff corrected. "You know, until things settle down."

"Oh." Dean smiled, satisfied. "Well, good. My little brother here had his heart set on going to this fair. He loves all that stuff; merry-go-rounds, that cute teacup ride, you know what I'm talking about."

Sam forced a tight-lipped smile, mentally cursing his older brother's love of humiliating him in front of strangers where he would have to play along.

"I really do." He confirmed reluctantly, and the Sheriff gave Sam a strange look, obviously wondering if the man was in his early 20s, or just looked far older than he actually was.

Remembering his manners, the Sheriff replaced his corny smile. "Well then you'll be pleased to know that it should be up and running again by tomorrow or the day after."

"Fabulous." Sam imitated his brother's over-the-top friendly demeanor, and gave the Sheriff a nod. "Thanks for your time.

The man returned to his "duty" as Sam and Dean started walking back to the car. Once they were out of earshot, Sam shot Dean a dirty look.

"I haven't been on one of those teacup rides since I was... what, seven?" He protested.

Dean grinned. "Yeah, but you loved it, didn't you?"

Sam shook his head in defeat, changing the subject before his cheeks turned an even darker shade of scarlet. "So, we won't be able to check out this fortune teller for another couple days. What do we do in the meantime?"

"We talk to the girlfriend." Dean was already in the car. Sam smiled; his brother was always enthusiastic about an investigation, even if he didn't place much stock in this particular one. "Lola, right?"

"Linda." Sam corrected, folding his lanky frame into the passenger seat. "Linda Rogers."

"Right, right." Dean nodded, fumbling with the radio as the engine roared to life and they pulled away from the curb. "Linda. Gotcha."


	3. A Reluctant Interrogatee

"How'd you get her address?" Dean asked, cocking an eyebrow as they walked along the narrow, one way street. The ground was paved with dry, orange leaves which made a satisfying crunching sound under their feet with every step.

Sam rolled his eyes. "_Phone book_, Dean. You know, we can occasionally do things the legal way."

"You just suck the fun out of everything, don't you?" Dean answered as they rounded a corner into the street on which Linda apparently lived. They had left the Impala back at the motel they were staying in, figuring following the map and Sam's scribbled directions would be easier on foot.

"She's not gonna want to talk to us." Sam stated the obvious, looking less than hopeful.

"Well that's fine, she doesn't have to talk to _us_." Dean replied with a self-congratulatory smirk, and pulled the two fake IDs he had brought along out of his back pocket. He held them close to his face, inspecting the names. "She can talk to... Sheriff Napier and Sheriff Wayne."

Sam shrugged and accepted the former ID, observing the name printed on it doubtfully. "Alright, but you better hope she's not a Batman enthusiast."

Dean brushed off this comment, as if the notion was ridiculous. "Dude, she's a chick."

As they approached the quaint, forest-green front door, Dean got himself into character. It was a lot like acting, what he did. In fact, it practically _was_ acting, in an even more literal sense than those 'professional' Hollywood actors. The way Dean saw it, _he_ was the professional.

Dean's knuckles made a deep, hollow sound as they rapped on the solid wood. They both had a feeling that the knock wouldn't come as a surprise to Linda. No doubt she'd been getting visitors all day; friends, family, well-wishers, and of course, God's gift to mankind; the media.

After a few moments, the front door swung open like a velvet stage curtain, and both brothers leapt into their act.

"Are you Linda Rogers?" Dean put on an official tone and adjusted his stance so he was standing straight, not leaning more on one leg than the other.

The young woman who had answered the door nodded, running a hand through her short, red hair in frustration. Dean's guess about them not being the first visitors of the day was clearly correct. "Yeah." She said wearily. "But listen, I'm really not up for any more company today, please, if you'd just come back some other -"

"This'll be quick, I promise." Sam stepped in.

Dean nodded. "We won't take more than five minutes of your time, Miss Rogers, we just need to ask you a few routine questions." He flashed his badge, and Sam did the same.

"You're Sheriffs?" Linda asked skeptically, noting their civilian clothing as well as the fact that she'd never seen them before. "Aren't you meant to be in like, a uniform, or something?"

"We're off duty at the moment." Dean explained, never letting his calm expression falter. "We'd like to talk to you about what happened at the Carnival yesterday."

"If you have a minute." Sam added with a pleasant smile.

Linda's dark brows furrowed. "Wait a minute, I don't understand." She cast a look between the two 'sheriffs'. "They told me they weren't gonna investigate. Basically said I was crazy."

"Those men have been talked to." Dean informed her with a solid nod. "Truth is, business's been slow this week, so this morning Chief gave us the go-ahead to look into it. And if there is any truth to your claims, well," Dean winked and flashed a grin. "that would make one helluva case."

"What do you mean 'if there's any truth to my claims'?" Linda said harshly, pronouncing each syllable to its full extent. Dean recognized this as the first sign of a chick about to cue the waterworks; he'd had years of practice identifying it with Sam. "Every _word_ I said was the truth."

Sam, having decided his brother's forward approach may have reached a brick wall in effectiveness by now, stepped forward, just a little, moving his right shoulder in front of Dean's left. Not an overly noticeable gesture, but enough to let him know to step down.

"And we want to give you the chance to prove that." Sam's voice oozed sincerity, something Dean had never been able to get his to do. "If you'd let us. May we come in?"

-----------------------

What was it with them and tea? Every time they talked to someone about a case, out came the tea. Was it a grieving thing, or did the two of them give off some sort of vibe? Well, Sammy, maybe, but Dean was certain he didn't look the 'tea' type.

He tried to look the type, though, as the poor girl placed that dreaded pale-brown liquid inside the dainty cup on a floral-patterned coaster in front of him. He smiled, maybe a little too tightly, and picked up the teacup, noticing his little finger rise into the air on instinct as his other fingers tried to grip the tiny handle. He cast a glance at his brother who, to Dean's dismay, was having no problem with the miniature teacup, and even seemed to be enjoying the aroma of tea leaves and skim milk.

Dean's inward grumble showed as nothing more than a polite grimace on the outside, as he tried to sip his tea the way he saw Sam doing it. The taste reminded him of why he'd switched to coffee at an early age, but he tried to take comfort in the fact that 'tea contains caffeine at 3 of its dry weight' - or so he had read.

"So, Linda." Sam sat his cup back on the coaster, and Dean took the opportunity to do the same, trying no to look too relieved. "Did Billy ever seem depressed?"

Linda shook her head immediately. "Absolutely not. He was enthusiastic about... everything." She paused, eyes taking on that wet, glassy look. "He had big plans. For himself... for us."

Sam looked sympathetic, and Dean tried to mirror his expression, hoping it didn't make him look like he'd been sucking on a lemon all day. However a quick glance into the reflective kettle confirmed his fears.

"Are you sure?" Sam continued, speaking slowly. "Because, I mean, after the fortune teller, he would have been pretty upset, right? Is there _any _chance the thought of death scared him so much, that... he wanted to jump before he was pushed?"

Sam Winchester; Master of Euphemism. It never failed to amaze Dean.

"Billy would have never committed suicide." Linda was adamant, eyelashes starting to get damp and clump together.

_Well, now that's out of the way_. Dean thought, then turned to Linda. "Can you describe to us _exactly_ what happened when you went to see this fortune teller?"

Linda nodded weakly. "We were at the Carnival. I wanted to go to the fortune-telling tent, I thought it would be fun. Billy didn't want to, he said it was stupid, but he gave in. He did it for me." The tears which had been lurking in her eyes finally spilled over. "She asked us to draw cards. Mine was the Two of Clubs. She told me that meant loss of a loved one." Sam made a mental note of this, and Linda continued. "Then Billy showed his... the Ace of Spades." She sniffled, and choked out the last part of her story. "The Death Card."

"How long after you left was it that Billy passed away?" Sam asked, keeping his tone gentle and understanding.

Linda shrugged a little, and wiped her eyes angrily. "No more than ten minutes."

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. This was beginning to sound more and more like their kind of case.

Dean stood, confident that they'd gotten all they needed to know. "Thank you for your time, Miss Rogers." He gave her a nod, and Sam rose to do the same. "We'll check back in with you in a few days, let you know what we've found."

Linda managed a shaky smile, dabbing at her smudged mascara. "Thank you, sheriffs."

Dean was at the door, and shot her one last grin before stepping outside. "Just doing our job, Miss."

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean once he heard the door click shut behind them. "Do you _always_ have to hit on the mourner?"

"Do you always have to sip tea like a chick?" Dean shot back.

The younger brother shook his head with a sigh. Time to change the subject.

"So, what she said in there." Sam returned to the most pressing topic. "You think we've got a case?"

Dean paused, torn between the two possible answers. Sam raised his eyebrows, patiently waiting for a response.

"Alright, it does sound like this fortune teller might be the real deal." Dean admitted. "But there's nothing wrong with predicting the future, Sam." He gave his brother a pointed glance. "Isn't that right?"

Sam pursed his lips, and they started walking back to the motel. "That's different, Dean. I try to help the people I see in trouble. This fortune teller, she didn't do anything. Knew he was gonna die, and didn't even try to stop it."

Dean shrugged, lifting a nonchalant eyebrow. "Maybe she's been doing it long enough to know that you can't change fate."

"And we've been doing _this_ long enough to know that you _can_." Sam retorted, and Dean knew he was right. "It's just... something's still off."

"How do you figure that?"

"Well, for a start, Linda said the fortune teller told her the Two of Clubs represented loss of a loved one." Sam explained. "Cartomancy never gives such specific readings. She's making it up, Dean, I'm sure of it."

Dean could see his brother's point, frowning at this new revelation. "The most troubling part to that is her false readings are still coming true."

It wasn't often that Dean gave in, especially not to his little brother. But he could sense it too; that unsettling feeling, like the teeth on a gear that are just too big to fit into the indent. He couldn't ignore it, so he nodded.

"Alright." Dean agreed. "But I'm sticking you with the research privileges."

Sam rolled his eyes. "How is that different from any other case?"

Dean grinned. Once again, his brother was right.


	4. Just Another Day at the Office

"Alright, what'd you find?" Dean's lack of small talk was another thing which became very apparent while working a case. Straight to the point, no messing around. While he knew a simple 'Hi, Sam' would never go amiss, the older hunter just liked to get things done.

Sam yawned and rubbed a hand over his face, a clear sign of the good hour or two of research he'd done while Dean had taken the library shift. Sam had been surprised, to say the least, when his brother had offered to sort through numerous public records and local newspapers for the rest of the afternoon. He did it so willingly, in fact, so uncharacteristically that he had even earned a few muttered 'Christo's which Sam had tried to conceal with a conveniently timed sneeze. Dean didn't mind his brother's suspicions of demonic possession, in fact, he had even considered playing along for about half a millisecond. After all, he knew Sam would never let him live down the fact that the only reason Dean had agreed to comb the public records was because the librarian's daughter was someone he _definitely_ would not mind waking up next to.

The youngest hunter swiveled his laptop around so Dean could see the screen, and he explained. "Well, first of all, remember what I said about the readings?" Dean nodded. "It turns out, not only were they way too specific to be genuine, but according to this they're not even accurate."

"What?" This caught Dean's attention, and he took a seat next to his brother.

"Yeah, in Cartomancy the suit of clubs means work and plans, and the two represents exchange." Sam continued.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Exchange of plans? I'm all for reading between the lines, but how'd she manage to pull 'loss of a loved one' out of that?"

"Exactly." Sam gave him a pointed look. "She's definitely running a scam. But like you said, what she predicts is still coming true -"

"And I thought _you_ had an issue with always being right." Dean interrupted. "Definitely sounds like our kind of gig, though." He pushed himself up from the swivel-chair and ruffled Sam's curly hair, adding with a touch of sarcasm; 'Well spotted, Sammy."

Sam just rolled his eyes.

-----------------------

It turned out the Sheriff they'd spoken to earlier knew his stuff. The loud, annoying - albeit reassuring - music of the Carnival could be heard from the brothers' motel room early the next morning. Sam wasn't bothered by it; he'd been out of bed for a good hour before he heard the stew of bagpipes and techno and whatever else was played at such events drifting in through the window, confirming their plans for the day.

Dean was a different story. Sam knew his brother had always been a heavy sleeper, ever since they were kids, so it hadn't surprised him that he was able to sleep through the noise even when Sam had opened the window. The younger hunter wondered momentarily if his brother would be able to sleep quite as well if a large object was dropped on top of him.

As it turned out, the answer was no.

A string of groggy profanities was Dean's response as Sam walked over to retrieve his left shoe from where it now sat at the head of his brother's motel bed, beneath a muddy shoe-print on the pastel-peach wall. Dean eyed the offending object sleepily, running a hand over his face to shake the morning daze.

"Dude, real mature." He grumbled as he pulled himself out of bed.

Sam just shrugged. "We have a job to do."

"The carnival's back up and running?" Dean asked as he sorted through his duffel bag, sniffing the three different t-shirts he had with him, trying to judge which one smelled the least offensive. "How do you know?"

"Can you not hear that?" Sam gestured to the window, cheerful carnival-esque music still drifting in.

Dean cocked his head to listen for a moment. "Oh, right." He pulled the selected shirt over his head and headed back to where he'd left his socks the night before. "I just figured that was your iPod or something."

Sam screwed up his nose in a mix between confusion and offense. "Okay, Dean, I know you're down on my taste in music, but... _please_. Give me a little credit."

Dean shrugged, lifting a sarcastic eyebrow accompanied by a slight grin. "My mistake."

Sam flushed pink, and didn't speak until they'd left the motel, this time in the Impala rather than on foot.

"So, we go in, talk to the psychic chick, maybe shout you a couple rounds on the teacup ride," Dean went over the plan. "But then we're out of there, okay?"

Sam cast a sideways glance at his older brother, sensing his discomfort. Sometimes his 'macho' brother was such a... girl. Although this revelation of a new fear of his did give Sam a little more leverage in their frequent mocking-wars. He snorted and shook his head. "Relax Dean. It's not like it's a 747."

Dean grumbled, maneuvering the car into a perfect parallel park outside the sea of tents and hopped out.

It was by sheer luck that they spotted the sheriffs before they spotted the fortune telling tent. Exiting one of the poorly-constructed port-a-loos, a middle-aged man in a light brown uniform nodded to his slightly younger partner and they walked off in the opposite direction, matching each others' stride.

Chances are, they weren't at the carnival for the rides.

"Son of a bitch." Dean muttered under his breath. "What the hell are they doing here? They're not s'posed to be investigating"

"They must have changed their minds." Sam sighed as he watched the retreating officers. Even he couldn't say he'd seen this coming; in their experience, the law was hardly apt to a change of heart.

"Well then, these are useless." Dean removed the Sheriff badge from his ID case and tucked it into his back pocket. "We need a new plan."

Sam was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Right." He marched his brother towards the small tent. "Follow my lead."

"_Your_ lead?" Dean was surprised, to say the least. "Isn't that my line?"

Sam ignored him. "Just play along, okay?"

The bright pinstripe flap was pushed back to reveal an equally colorful interior, support poles hung with wooden beads and dyed feathers and countless other knick-knacks. It almost bruised Dean's pride to be standing in such a place, and he reached a tentative finger up to a string of beads with reluctant fascination.

"I'm sorry, you boys have the wrong tent." A woman's voice announced from behind them, making Dean jump.

Sam turned around in confusion. "This isn't the fortune-telling tent?"

It was the woman's turn to be baffled. "Well, yes. But surely you don't want a reading? No one's been by after what happened to that poor boy..."

Sam's overly-casual attitude took on a hint of sobriety. "Yeah, heard about that. Poor kid. Tragic, really, but we're not the superstitious type." Dean had to keep himself from snorting at the sheer irony of the comment, as well as Sam's altered behavior.

The fortune teller appeared surprised and relieved at the same time, and motioned them quickly over to the card table, as if afraid they'd change their minds and leave, taking their precious money with them.

"Well, why don't you start by telling me your names?" She seated herself behind the table and began shuffling.

"I'm Joseph, this is my roommate, Adam." Sam replied easily.

"Oh." The woman gave them a warm smile, even if it was a little forced. "Are you two a couple?"

"What? No!" Sam was horrified that the mistake had been made once again. Although he had to admit that claiming they were roommates was sort of asking for it. "College roommates." He clarified. "In fact, that's why we're here. We major in parapsychology and we're meant to be writing a paper on predicting the future and stuff like that." Sam tried his best to sound ignorant on the subject, and was careful not to use the proper term.

It was at this point Dean picked up his brother's lead, recognizing the plan. "Since it doesn't look like you're busy... maybe we could ask you a bit about what you do and some of the history behind it?"

Dean was impressed by his brother's quick thinking. The fortune teller would either have to agree to answer their questions or admit she was a fake. Both of them were already ruling out the latter.

After a split second of hesitation, the woman replaced her smile. "Of course. Have a seat."

Sam was the first to pull out a chair opposite the woman and sit down. He leaned back, crossing his legs loosely and tried to look as nonchalant as possible. Dean mirrored Sam's actions, knowing his brother would find it easier to pull off the casual college student look, having had first-hand experience.

"So, uh, I guess the first thing we'd like to know is, how exactly did you get involved in this sort of thing?" Sam began to pretend to take notes, having been fortunate enough to find a pen and an old gas station receipt in his back pocket.

"It's the family business, really." The woman admitted with a shrug. Dean found the words to hit a little too close to home. "My aunt got into the whole fortune-telling practice at about my age. Things like that had always interested me so when she offered a weekend job helping her out at one of the fairs, I couldn't stay away. That was twelve years ago, and I've been doing this ever since."

"Your aunt, is she still involved in the business?" Sam asked, jotting the number '12' on the back of the receipt.

"No, I'm afraid she passed away about three weeks ago." The woman's so-far bubbly attitude regressed suddenly into the obligatory flatness Sam and Dean were so used to dealing with. This attitude had always irritated Dean. That's right; have respect for the dead, don't smile when you say their name, _that's_ what they would have wanted. He forced his eyes to remain stationary and not perform a Sam-esque roll.

"I'm sorry." Sam replied, offering a crinkled brow and a half-grimace as signs of his sympathy. Of course, his little brother had always been good with the mourners.

"Don't be." The woman replied with a painted-on smile. "She died happy."

"Doing what she loved?" Sam couldn't help but inquire. "Fortune-telling?"

The woman nodded. "A heart-attack. Halfway through a reading." Her eyes began to get teary again, and Sam sensed he'd gone as far down that particular path as he could. Turning around, he was about to try another approach, when Dean cut him off with his own question.

"Ms, uh...?"

"Tracy. Colleen Tracy."

"Right, Ms Tracy. Would you say your readings are accurate?"

Colleen looked surprised, almost taken aback for a moment, at the forwardness of the question. When Dean just smiled at her and awaited an answer, she spoke; "I couldn't say. I rarely have contact with any clients after I give a reading. But Cartomancy is a powerful tool of prediction, and its accuracy rate is said to be very high."

This didn't satisfy Dean. "Well, sure." He shrugged curtly, crossing his legs like Sam had done. "But how do you know you're doing it right?"

His voice had no air of accusation, but Sam knew better. Shooting his brother a cautionary glance, he uttered a warning "Adam...". He then turned back to Colleen, to once again clean up the mess left by Dean's tendency towards tactless comments. "What he means is, there must be so much different lore on predictions and prophecies, how can you really be sure which version is right?"

"It's been in my family a long time." Colleen replied simply. While the vagueness of her comment had clearly been a deliberate tactic to withhold information, both brothers performed a mental air-punch. That's what they'd been waiting for.


	5. A Question of Ethics

Dean's adamancy about not hanging around at the carnival hadn't been an empty threat. As soon as they stepped out of the musty, lemongrass-scented tent he made a beeline for the exit. Sam easily matched his stride, as he studied the crumpled receipt he had jotted notes on.

"She's been doing this for twelve years, Dean." He commented. "Why is it only now that we've heard of her?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe this is the first time she's whacked anyone. There are fifty one other cards in that deck which _don't_ involve a violent death."

Sam frowned and shook his head. "You'd think she'd draw the line somewhere."

"Or at least bump her prices." Dean joked. "With that kind of accuracy, damned if I'd be charging five bucks per reading."

"That's not funny, Dean." Sam scowled. "This is serious. Colleen's _changing the future_."

"Okay, but how? And what do we do about it?" Dean asked, knowing his brother was generally better at the 'plan' thing than he was. He fished in his front pocket for the keys as they neared the one-way street on which they had parked.

"Well first of all, we need to stop people going to her." Sam reasoned. "This carnival's got a good two or three days left in town and we can't give her the chance to -"

"Sammy?"

"What?"

"Where's the car?" Dean's voice was small and shook a little. It had been here that they'd parked, he was sure of it. The road was still lined with cars; however none of them so much as resembled their own.

"WHERE'S THE GODDAMNED CAR?" Dean exploded, kicking the parking meter they had 'accidentally' disregarded upon arriving. They heard the coins inside rattle.

"It's okay. Dean!" Sam's futile attempts to calm him falling on deaf ears. "Dean, it's probably just been towed."

Sam's intention of these words bringing comfort and understanding to his brother seemed to have an adverse effect.

"They TOWED my car?" Dean flipped, giving the parking meter another blow. "We were here _FIFTEEN MINUTES_!"

"I know Dean, but you have to calm down." Sam glanced around nervously, noticing how many people had stopped to watch the twenty-seven year old throw a tantrum on the side of the road. He'd learned from experience that getting noticed in a town where they were just getting their bearings was never a good move. "Lets just walk back to the motel and call the towing company, okay?" Sam felt like he was reasoning with a small child.

Only this small child had access to firearms and could reach the top shelves.

-----------------------

The walk back to the motel proved to take much longer than Dean was willing to wait. As he ducked into the first telephone booth he saw and emerged with a few 'borrowed' pages of the phone book, Sam wondered if they could go one day without breaking a law... minor though this offense was. All Dean offered in return was a self-congratulatory smirk and a flip of his cell phone as he punched in the number supplied on the crudely torn page.

There was a pause as Dean waited for someone to pick up. When he was finally greeted by a monotonous male voice, it was nothing less than he'd expected. Dean guessed the man was in his mid-forties, probably wearing a singlet patched with food stains and who never made it through high-school. Sam heard his brother snort lightly, and leaning over to see the page he'd taken, could only assume it was from the sheer irony of the company's name. Sam could almost hear Dean's sarcastic tone echoing through his head; _Freedom Towing? Oh yeah, that's reflective of their services. I'll bet they offer a LOT of freedom._

Sam jerked out of his thoughts at the sound of Dean's phone snapping shut, signaling the short conversation was over already. He didn't look happy. Sam was almost afraid to ask, although Dean solved that problem for him. 

"Car's not there." He growled, displaying only a tenth of the mental anguish Sam was sure his brother was feeling. "Whoever the assclown I talked to was, he'd never seen an Impala in his life." Dean wondered if he'd ever seen second grade, either.

Sam was glad they were only a few minutes away from the motel. Dean was getting worked up and, although he didn't show much of what he was feeling, Sam could tell by his knotted brow and brisk stride that the thought of the Impala 'scared and all alone', as his brother would most likely say, must be killing him. They walked on in silence, both grateful for the short distance they had left.

Sam saw it before Dean did. The older hunter's downcast gaze showed him nothing other than gravel under his scuffed boots, but Sam was staring dead ahead. They were back at the motel, standing out the front by the thin flight of concrete stairs and the car port under the second-story rooms. And they weren't the only ones.

Glistening in the late-morning sun, the long body of the ever familiar 1967 Chevrolet lay waiting for them. Sam ground to a dead stop, catching Dean's attention and directing it towards the car. Neither of them knew what to say. Neither of them knew what had happened. They had definitely driven to the carnival; of that much, they were both sure.

"Well," Sam finally broke the shocked silence. "This complicates things."

-----------------------

"Someone stole it, and then had a change of heart?" Sam suggested another possibility, leaning back against the head of his bed, a position which was much more common for Dean than himself.

The eldest rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and they just happened to know where we were staying." Even Sam had to admit that his theories were going downhill. Dean poured a glass of water and downed it in a single gulp, leaning against the kitchen counter. He shook his head. "Someone's messing with us."

"Colleen?" Sam suggested. "Maybe she's figured out we're onto her."

"It's likely." Dean agreed with a shrug. "But as strange as this was, it's not our biggest issue." He retrieved his jacket from where it was hanging on the back of a chair and shrugged it on. "We gotta hit the library, dig up old public records from around '93, '94... see if this is the first time she's gone camisado on some poor kid's ass."

Sam nodded, and hoisted his lanky frame off the bed with a squeal of rusty springs.

-----------------------

The library was quiet - as libraries usually are, Sam answered Dean's comment with a touch of sarcasm - and almost empty. A small group of college students were hunched around a table in the far corner, and in the children's section, a young woman was reading to her infant son, putting comic enthusiasm into every word.

_"I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them, Sam-I-Am!"_

Dean chuckled softly, unwilling to admit that he recognized the story, whether he considered it a classic or not.

They were glad to find the few computers near the back were not in use, and Sam pulled up another chair so they could gather around one screen. Typing the keywords _'carnival, death'_ into the search box and selecting the appropriate year, Sam clicked 'OK', and groaned when the search returned more than 300 articles.

Sam started scrolling through the search results, pulling up anything that looked promising - which wasn't much. The death of a carnival performer in Buffalo, a man in Washington whose last wish upon his death was to hold a carnival instead of a funeral and a woman who died after falling out of a carnival ride in San Antonio. Nothing Sam could work with. Letting his eyes and mind stray from the computer screen, he glanced at his brother.

"Dean..." Sam began with a hint of apprehension, fiddling with the drawstring on his hoodie. "Suppose Colleen really is dangerous. Suppose... suppose she killed Billy for no real reason other than her own reputation or profit. You know we can't kill her."

"What?" Dean pulled away from the computer screen, one eyebrow arched. "Why the hell not?"

"She's a _person_, Dean." Sam sounded slightly exasperated. "We don't kill people, that's not what we do."

There was a slight pause, in which Dean met Sam's gaze with tired eyes. He knew what his little brother was saying, knew in a way that he was right.

_In a way_.

"We kill evil sons of bitches, Sam. That _is_ what we do." He saw Sam clench his jaw, knowing what was to come... and Dean wasn't about to disappoint. "Human or not."

Sam shook his head. "It doesn't seem _right_."

"Look, Sam, think about it this way." Dean knew his little brother could be stubborn, so he tried his best to sound as convincing as possible. "Evil creatures, they're born evil. They don't have a choice. But evil humans... they have the choice. They make a conscious decision to be the way they are... and that makes them so much worse than any creature."

Sam sniffed. "You mean like the way we made the conscious decision to become hunters?"

_Oh, snap._ Dean hadn't seen that one coming.

"That... that's different, Sam."

"How?" Sam asked, his argumentative side showing clear as day. "Dad raised us to be hunters. We had no choice when we were kids, and now we couldn't change it even if we wanted to. What if it's the same for Colleen?"

Dean shook his head, adamant. "We can't take that chance, Sam."

Sam didn't take his eyes off his brother. _'We can't take that chance, Sam.'_ It wasn't enough.

Dean sighed. "Anyway, even if you're right, if she _was_ raised to think it's okay to off a kid for a couple of bucks, that doesn't change who she is now."

He knew Sam didn't like part of what they did - the part where sometimes you had to make a judgment call on whether something was right or wrong, even when you weren't really sure. What separated an evil person from an evil creature? Was there really _any_ difference, when it came down to it? Those were the kind of questions Sam hated having to answer, Dean knew. To be honest, he wasn't crazy about them either.

He locked eyes with Sam now, feeling he owed his little brother at least a fraction of the sincerity he himself was displaying.

"It doesn't change what we have to do."


	6. The Upper Hand

The motel room was oddly silent, but for the slow, rhythmic _drip, drip, drip_ of the leaky tap overhanging the kitchen sink. Fine specks of dust hung in the sour air with nothing to disturb them, as both brothers sat on their beds, one cross-legged, looming over a laptop, and the other leaning back, legs straight out in front of him, eyes closed.

And then the dust moved. Sam unfolded his legs and swung them through the floating particles, and began setting his long strides up and down the motel room. Pacing always seemed to help him think. Dean surveyed him for a few moments before going back to whatever he was doing (sleeping? 'Resting' his eyes? Fantasizing? Who knew with him?), but Sam didn't stop. Back and forth, he went, like a pendulum, until finally, he stopped at the foot of his brother's bed.

"Alright. I'm out."

Dean cracked an eye open, the respective eyebrow going up with it in a quizzical gesture. "What?"

"I said, I'm out." Sam repeated with a little shrug and an entirely genuine expression. "I'm not going to do this with you anymore."

"Woah, woah. Hold it, Sam." He had Dean's attention for sure now. The eldest brother pulled himself up into a sitting position at a remarkable rate at stared up at the youngest. Both eyes were open now, and they were fixed on him. "What do you mean you're not doing this anymore? You're not hunting?"

Sam gave a simple nod.

For a few moments, Dean was at a loss for words. His mouth seemed to be sampling some, trying to get his tongue around them silently but floundering in the shock of Sam's announcement. Finally; "Is this about Colleen?"

Once again, Sam just nodded. "Yeah, Dean, it is. I won't kill an innocent human being, so I'm not -"

"Innocent?" Dean scoffed, pushing himself off the bed and standing to face his brother. "She's far from innocent, Sam. Do I need to remind you that she knocked off a kid for the price of a couple donuts?"

"Maybe she did, but that's not..." Sam's sentence trailed off and hung in the stale air. "She's _human_, Dean. She's not just some creature we can kill."

A small tug at the corner of Dean's mouth gave warning of the obligatory smart-ass joke which was sure to follow.

"You know, Sam, that's a little racist."

_Yep. There it was._

Sam shrugged, exasperated, and rolled his eyes with sarcasm. "I dunno, call it a professional courtesy." He placed his hands on his hips. "I won't do it."

"Okay, but just calm down." Dean held out his hands, trying not to show too much weakness. He knew he had to keep up his strong big brother act, but he couldn't let Sam just walk away so easily. He needed him. Far more than he let on. "Don't go making any rash decisions here, okay dude? Just think about this a second." Sam looked like he was listening, so Dean continued, but with the reluctant submission of someone who knows he has to give in. "Suppose we don't shoot Crazy Crackers. How are we s'posed to deal with this one?"

Sam tried to conceal a smile. He knew Dean would come around, with the proper leverage. He'd never really had any intention of leaving, but he knew the prospect of which would be enough to turn rock-solid Dean into silly-putty which had been left out in the sun.

"We need to find out how she's doing it." Sam gave his proposal. "No human is born with that kind of power. She must be using something, like an amulet or some kind of ritual. Colleen said it had been in her family a long time, maybe something was passed down to her, and her aunt taught her how to use it."

"So we find out what she's using, and we get rid of it." Dean thought the idea sounded okay... and probably better for their criminal records than what he'd been planning. "I can live with that."

"Right." Sam nodded. "We get in there, and we watch her. Watch out for any signs of black magick... in fact we should probably keep tabs on the people who get a bad reading from her, to stop the same thing happening to -"

"One problem, Sammy." Dean cut in. "She's already seen us. She knows what we look like. And, you're the expert here, but I get the feeling most college students don't apply for weekend jobs at carnivals."

Sam grinned, despite Dean's sarcasm. At times, getting around that problem was his favorite part of the job.

-----------------------

Dean had put a nail in Sam's balloon of enthusiasm for a visit to the costume shop almost straight away. Dressing up had been Sammy's thing ever since they were little. He'd even had a little bag with things like big glasses and funny shoes for a few years, which he would amuse himself with when John was off on a particularly long hunt. And Dean could recognize when a disguise was a necessary part of the job. This time, however, he could see one alternative before _that_ particular road needed to be taken.

Now, hunched over the laptop at nearly two a.m. while Sam slept soundly with his blankets bunching around his waist, Dean was beginning to feel like the two of them had somehow switched places. He typed the final line and ran a hand over his tired face, draining the last dregs from his now stone-cold cup of coffee. Making sure he hit the 'save' button, he scanned the flyer which he had put together in a little under three hours. Truth be told, with his near-nonexistent computer skills, he was quite pleased with himself.

**WIN WIN WIN!**

**As a patron of this year's Avondale Carnival, you automatically have the chance to win a brand new BMW 325ci convertible, or $100,000 cash! You decide! **

**All you need to do in order to be in to win this **_**FANTASTIC**_** prize is fill out your details below, tear off the form and hand it to any one of our representatives. It's that easy!**

The painfully constructed form Dean had created under the 'tear here' line had fields marked _'name'_ _'phone'_ _'address'_ and - most importantly - '_for authentication, your fortune-telling result_'.

Finally, Dean shut down the laptop, the minimal guilt he felt at scamming all those people pushing itself to the back of his mind.

Thanking the Lord that no copy places would be open this late at night, Dean staggered in the direction of his bed, and was asleep before he hit the mattress.


	7. Masquerade, Again

**A/N:** _I don't usually do author's notes, but I wanna let y'all know about a new fic I'm working on in the SPN fandom. As a basic summary, without giving too much away, Sam and Dean wake up as teenagers, in an old motel room under the parental watch of John (this is set mid Season 1, around the time of 'Scarecrow'). They're understandably confused at first, but after a while they realize they've been sent back to stop something - and no, this isn't really a time-travel fic. I can't stand that science fiction shit! Also, I can't say exactly what it is they need to stop, you'll just have to read and find out! But rest assured, there will be plenty of creepies to sate your fix. Anyway, if - in your reviews - you could mention how interested you would be in reading this. Just so I can sort my priorities out. I was going to work on it as a side-project until I finished The Hawthorne Effect, then start posting each chapter after that. But if enough of you are interested, I might post the first installment within a couple of weeks and alternate updates between these two. Your comments really do count. Ask and you shall receive!_

-----------------------

The neat stack of flyers on the table was the first thing Sam noticed. Leafing through them loosely with his thumb, he turned to his brother, who was groggily awaking in the bed next to his.

"When did you do all these?"

"Mmmm... last night." Dean replied, voice thick and rough with sleep. "And then, this morning, before you woke up."

Sam stared at him, incredulous. "_You_ got up before 6am to go to a copy place?"

Dean gave a loose nod, eyes still half-closed. "Uh-huh."

"_You_?" Sam clarified, still disbelieving. A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Dean grunted in confirmation once again, and pushed himself up on his elbows. He looked incredibly disheveled and honestly - Sam hoped he wasn't staring -, nearly half-dead. "Oh sure, you think you're pretty funny now." Dean swung his legs out of bed. "But let's see who's laughing when we've got the street address of every person who could be on Colleen's hit list."

Sam was willing to humor his brother this one time. The work he'd put in was impressive, but he wasn't entirely sure how effective this idea would be. After all, if someone was in a hurry, or simply not interested...

"Yeah." Sam said with a small smile. "You're right."

"What time is it?" Dean asked, and Sam glanced at his watch.

"8.40. Carnival should definitely be up and running by now."

"Yeah, but who knows for how many more days." Dean was already tugging on his pants, that infectious enthusiasm returning at full force. "What do you day we go offer some folks a car?"

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Sure, if by 'offering some folks a car', you mean 'scamming people out of their personal details'."

All Dean offered was a nonchalant shrug as he picked up the stack of 'entry forms'. "Potato, potahto." With a look that clearly read 'well, come on', Dean pulled the motel room door open.

Still fearing for the safety of his baby, they left for the carnival on foot.

-----------------------

"That's right, sir, you could win this stunningly attractive convertible for you and your family, or the huge cash prize." Sam repeated the sentence he'd been parroting for the last two and a half hours, his vigor waning a little more with every 'entry' slip he deposited in his messenger bag.

Yeah, this wasn't getting old _at ALL_.

Sam managed an extremely forced smile and a 'thank you' as - what was hopefully Colleen's last customer of the morning - filled out his details and handed the form back to him. A quick glance at what he had written proved this one wouldn't be their biggest worry - his fortune had described a promotion at work.

_Well, good for him_, Sam thought.

But thank God the crowd was starting to thin out.

"No, ma'am, you don't need to buy a thing." Sam turned and saw Dean struggling to interest a particularly skeptical woman. Sam pursed his lips in amusement. The polite façade didn't suit him. "This is an entirely non-profit offer."

The woman frowned and folded her arms. "Really? And who are you sponsored by?"

Dean's smile wavered a little, and Sam could almost see the cogs in his brain spinning into overdrive.

"Uh, the good people at... Jim Beam?"

Sam snorted. Of course, that _would_ be the first thing Dean thought of.

Reluctantly, the woman uncrossed her arms and stiffly filled out the form. After she had stalked away, Dean let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"Well, that was pointless." Dean groaned as he surveyed the slip. The spiky handwriting claimed that all Mrs. Asshat had to worry about in the near future was a short stay in the red section of her bank statement.

"You're telling me." Sam agreed, leafing through the stack of filled out forms with a disgruntled sigh. "I think the most worrying thing here is a woman who'll soon come down with a bad case of Glandular Fever. Honestly, I can't believe Colleen hasn't been picked up as a scam."

"Yeah, well this is getting us nowhere." Dean shoved his papers into Sam's hands. "I say we take a more direct approach."

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Which is..?"

"Follow me." Dean's words were barely audible as he turned and pushed back the brightly colored tent flap. Sam hurried to catch up - the frustrated yet determined expression on his brother's face worried him just a little. Sam dimly wondered if Dean was packing.

As it turned out, he needn't have worried. Dean's anger evaporated as soon as they were inside - replaced by a friendly smile.

"Well, business seems to be up and running again." Dean commented, catching Colleen's attention.

"Sure is." She returned with a friendly nod. "And I'm sorry, but I was just about to run out to lunch. If you wanted a reading, I'll be back in fifteen..." Colleen paused, as if a thought had just occurred to her, and she eyed them curiously for a moment. "Do I know you?"

"Joseph and uh... Adam." Sam replied, struggling to recall their aliases from the previous day. "We're college students, we came by yesterday to talk to you about fortune telling. For a paper we're writing."

"Right. I thought you looked familiar." She set her bag down, and Dean bit back a pleased cackle. _Looks like lunch will have to wait_. "Was there anything else you boys needed to ask?"

"No, actually, this is our last night in town and me and uh... Joseph here thought we would take that reading after all." Dean's slightly sarcastic, slightly murderous smirk gave little away to Colleen, but Sam immediately saw his plan. "Seems like you're the real deal."

With a slightly bewildered smile, Colleen picked up her deck of cards and began shuffling. Leaning over her table, Sam also leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of any sort of pendant which could have significance. Colleen looked up sharply, and offered a tight smile while self-consciously adjusting her top to cover more of her chest. Sam's cheeks flushed scarlet and he quickly looked away.

"That's an interesting ring." Dean's voice cut through Sam's fog of humiliation like a strong wind.

"Oh." What Colleen mustered could hardly be called a smile. "Yes, it is."

The vagueness of her comment and her shady attitude could only mean Dean had struck a nerve; and that was exactly what he'd needed. He pressed on. "Family heirloom?"

Another smile so fake it would make soap actors cringe. "Yes. It was my aunt's."

Dean raised an eyebrow and cast a quick glance at Sam. "I see."

"So." She spread the deck out on the table in an expertly executed fan. It was as if a breeze had suddenly blown the discomfort from her face, and she was smiling genuinely again. "Let's get started, shall we? Please, both of you choose the first card you're drawn to."

Sam and Dean reached forward in unison - almost perfect mirror images of one another - and each plucked a card from the deck. Dean eyed his with suspicious contempt.

"Joseph, why don't you show me yours first?" Colleen said. After a second, Sam realized she meant him, and he flipped his card around with growing apprehension. Dean was relieved to see it was far from what he had feared. No, more than relieved. More like overjoyed. The five of hearts. No spades. No aces.

But despite Dean's pleased expression, Colleen's face fell. "Oh... I'm sorry. That card predicts an illness in your near future."

"What?"

"WHAT?"

Their exclamations came one after the other, like rapid fire, but Colleen disregarded them both.

"I didn't mean to alarm you." She explained calmly. "You shouldn't expect anything too awful. A stomach bug, at the worst. However, I do suggest you get home and get some rest."

Sam didn't say anything, but Dean eyed her with sarcastic curiosity.

"I'd call that a pretty grim reading." He noted, faking a chuckle. "Which is funny because, when we started research on this topic - you know, _for college_ - the first and most basic rule was that black cards represent bad fortunes, and red cards represent good."

Dean's glare was challenging, and for the first time, Colleen didn't fake a smile or look away.

"Now, correct me if I'm colorblind, but..."

Eyes locked on his, she replied calmly; "There are many different forms of Cartomancy."

Dean nodded with cheerful sarcasm. "I'll bet there are."

"Adam..." Sam warned. "Why don't you just show Colleen your card?"

A tight smile was directed at his brother before Dean gave in and turned his card around. "What's the diagnosis, doc?"

"Ah," Colleen offered him an encouraging smile. "You can expect a rise in your finances within the month."

Dean pushed the pleased smirk away, instead raising an eyebrow. "You got all that from the, uh-" He double checked. "King of diamonds?"

Colleen just nodded.

-----------------------

"Come on." Dean wrestled his little brother through the motel room door. "Let's get you into bed. You want some warm milk?"

"Dean, stop it!" Sam complained. "I feel fine."

After a few more hours guarding the tent, Dean had decided he was pushing his luck keeping Sam out there in the cold, and announced it was time to call it a day. He now removed the bag containing all the filled-out slips from Sam's shoulder and dumped it on the table. "Yeah, you feel fine now. But you know as well as I do that this Colleen bitch is never wrong." He guided Sam over to the bed and with a gentle shove, pushed him down onto the mattress.

"Dean, please... we should be focusing on the investigation." Sam whined, but made no move to get up. "What about the ring? Do you think that's what she's using to control the future?"

"If it's not, then she really needs to work on her communication skills." Dean replied. The sky was beginning to get dark outside, and Dean flicked the two lamps on. Kneeling down, he tugged off Sam's shoes and deposited them under the bed.

"Alright! Dean! I can take my own shoes off!" Sam grumbled, swinging his long legs into bed grumpily. "But I'm not sleeping."

"I didn't ask you to." Dean plonked himself down at the table and began flipping through the slips they'd gathered that day. "Now how about that warm milk?"

Sam just rolled his eyes.

They sat there for about fifteen minutes before it happened; Dean at the table, examining every prediction for any sign of danger, and Sam sitting up in bed, arms crossed, staring out the window crankily.

That was when the lights flickered. On and off, just once first, but then a few more times, as if the bulbs were loose. A slow scratching sound came from the ceiling above them, far too deliberate to be mice scurrying around in an attic - even though they knew that directly above them was another motel room.

Dean jumped to his feet in defense mode, already checking the lines of salt at the windows. The scratching sound moved down into the walls, the foundations of the room creaking despite the lack of wind.

And then it stopped. The room was once again deathly silent, bathed in the solid glow of the lamps.

Dean waited a moment, still poised in mid-reach for the salt-gun. But nothing happened. "Well, that was weir-"

Sam cut him off, flinging back the covers in a panicked scurry, huge hand clamped tightly over his mouth. "I think I'm gonna be sick!"

Dean watched as Sam hurtled into the bathroom, his departure quickly followed by hideous retching and splashing sounds. When he finally emerged, looking pale and sickly, Dean's final cog clicked into place.

With the long-awaited satisfaction of understanding, Dean crossed to the kitchen and unloaded a packet of milk-powder into a saucepan, as the first drops of rain began tapping on the window.


	8. Take Care Of Sammy

"She's using spirits?" Sam asked, never releasing the death-grip on his bucket. His stomach was still turning over, and for the first time in a long time, he hated that they had a job to do. At least it was still raining. Sam had always found the rain soothing.

"Makes sense, doesn't it?" Dean replied. "Colleen predicts a random event, Casper makes it happen. They're like... Calvin and Hobbs."

"Yeah, but Dean, there's got to be limits on what spirits can do." Sam argued.

"Depends." Dean shrugged. "But you and I have been in the business long enough to know that list ain't gonna have a whole lotta bullet points."

"So you think it's her ring?" Sam asked, slightly hating that, for once, Dean was the one filling _him_ in.

Dean nodded. "Looks like it. The way she freaked when I asked about it, she's either using that ring to summon spirits or to store her crack."

"So we find it and we destroy it."

"Sounds like a plan." Dean's enthusiasm suddenly waned as his eyes fell upon Sam huddled in bed, skin pale and greenish. "Only..."

Sam scoffed. "Dude! I _think_ I'll be alright for a few hours if you wanna take this one solo."

"Nuh-uh. No way am I leaving you alone, not in that condition." Dean's face was set in the stony determination which was the stubborn man's way of insisting 'no means no'. "Just get rested, will you? These things usually pass in a couple of days."

"We don't _have_ a couple of days, Dean!" Sam argued, but immediately felt guilty. Dean was only looking out for him. And he had to admit, he did just about feel like he was turning inside out.

"Yeah, well..." Dean glanced around for a change of topic. A well-timed stomach grumble sent him to his feet. "I'm friggin' starved. You wanna cheeseburger?"

The bucket between his knees suddenly looked very inviting, and Sam leaned a little further over it. Just in case. He shook his head weakly. "I'm good."

"Alright, well..." Dean shrugged on his coat. "I won't be gone more than twenty minutes."

-----------------------

Thirteen minutes later, the key turned in the lock.

Dean hauled two shopping bags through the door and kicked it closed behind him.

"I thought you were just getting a cheeseburger?" Sam asked, eyeing the brimming bags with mild curiosity, quickly outweighed by the persistent desire to throw up.

"I did." Dean pulled out a paper bag with grease stains on the outside reeking of processed meat, and dumped it on the table. "To go."

Sam let out a little whimper and buried his head in his bucket.

"Oh, and while I was out..." Dean pulled another object from one of the shopping bags. A wallet, Sam decided on closer inspection, and definitely not Dean's. It was dirty, made of gray and blue waterproof material... and thick. Sam guessed it wasn't empty. "No I.D. Nothing but cold, hard cash. You may be getting the rough end of the stick on this whole self-fulfilling prophecy deal, but I'm beginning to think this Colleen chick ain't half bad."

"She _killed_ someone, Dean." Sam reminded with a raised eyebrow. But his brother wasn't listening.

"There's like six hundred dollars in here!" Dean continued in awe.

After he'd finally finished counting the notes and being pleased with himself, he turned his attention back to Sam. "Got something for you, too." He tossed another small bag at the bed. Sam looked up just in time to catch it rather than be hit by it.

"Dean I said I didn't want any-" He stopped when he opened to bag to examine the contents. Instead of some greasy, deep-fried, edible heart-attack, whatever it was that Sam pulled out was small, lumpy, and looked like some kind of root vegetable.

"Wow... uh, Dean..." He looked up bashfully at his brother, then back at the thing in his hand. _What the hell was it?_ "I... I really don't know what to say..."

"You might try asking what it is, since you obviously have no clue in hell whether to eat it or scrub the bathroom with it."

"It's a loofah?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "No, idiot, it's a ginger root." This comment was met only with more confusion on Sam's part.

"A ginger root? Well, uh, thank you." Sam suppressed a small smile as he placed it on his nightstand, balanced on the knobby outcroppings to give it the humorous appearance of a dog standing on all fours. "I'll put it right here."

Dean rolled his eyes. "For Christ's sake, Sam. Did that spirit screw with your head, too? It's a ginger root, so you eat the damn thing." He lowered his tone, and even appeared a little bashful himself. "They told me it helps with nausea."

Suddenly Sam felt like the world's biggest jerk for teasing his brother when he was just trying to help him. Even so... that freakish, shapeless whatever-it-was looked barely on the Fish Oil side of edible. It looked healthy, and Sam had backed away on instinct. Maybe he'd been living Dean's lifestyle for too long.

Dean saw Sam's cautious eyeing of the ginger root, and offered a loophole. "Sammy... why don't you tackle that thing in the morning? You need to get yourself some sleep."

Sam glanced doubtfully at his watch, folded over and placed on his nightstand. "It's 7.30, Dean."

"Yeah, well, being sick gives you a 'sleep whenever' permit." Dean, pulling the blankets up to cover more of Sam's chest and fluffing his pillows, was the picture of a concerned mother clucking over an infant son. "And since this doesn't often happen to either of us, I suggest you use it to your advantage. Besides, I want you rested and feeling in top shape so we can end this damn thing."

Sam squirmed in protest to this degrading treatment... at first. This mattress was surely the softest he'd slept on so far. It was so comforting to be under warm covers when the rain was still tapping at the window. And lying on his back, he actually felt far less nauseous. Maybe he could rest his eyes... just... for... a... while...

With his dignity barely intact, but not much caring either way, Sam fell asleep.

-----------------------

"Rise 'n shine, Sleeping Beauty." Dean pulled the tattered curtain covering the room's one small window wide and let the early morning sun stream in, smirking just a little. When they'd first arrived at this room, Sam had wanted the bed directly in front of the window for the view. Dean had given in almost immediately, considering the bed was on the far side of the room from the door; he would have picked the other one anyway. Now, however, Sam looked to be heavily regretting that decision as he pulled the thick blankets higher to cover his eyes from the shaft of sunlight engulfing his bed.

"Nnuuhoowww... ddeerrrnnn leemme alloooon." Came muffled from the curled lump under the covers.

"Yeah... yeah, good morning." Dean wasn't entirely sure if he'd caught that comment right. "How ya feeling?"

The lump groaned, then wriggled further down the bed.

"Still, huh?" Dean frowned. "You feel like eating anything?"

"Nuh-uh."

Dean perched on the edge of Sam's bed. "Okay Sam, but you know, I'm not sure how much longer we can leave this hunt. I've always tried to put you first, above everything. But in this case, man... traveling carnivals... they travel."

"And if that isn't the Obvious Statement of the century..." Sam poked his head out from under the covers just long enough to support his comment with a sarcastic eye-roll. "Look, Dean, I told you last night, I'll be fine by myself if you want to finish the job. And if there's any way I can help from here..."

"Well..." Dean thought for a minute. "Maybe you could try to find a way to get a hold of Colleen's gypsy ring of death. You know, if you're feeling up to it." He searched in his pocket for a few seconds, and tossed a small piece of paper to Sam. "This might help."

Sam pushed himself into a sitting position and eyed the scrawled numbers on the crumpled receipt. "Colleen's cell number? How the hell did you manage to get this?"

Almost as soon as he asked, Sam wished he hadn't. Dean quirked an eyebrow, looking smugger than ever. "Just asked _real_ nice." He winked. "There are alternative methods to your 'phone book' theory... if you catch my drift."

"Yeah, kinda hard not to, Sergeant Subtle." Sam scoffed, and made to reach for his bucket.

"Oh, you're a friggin' comedian, huh?" Dean stood up and ruffled Sam's hair affectionately. "Well, once you're done being hilarious, maybe you could try putting that freaky mind of yours to work."

As Dean slung the messenger bag containing the rest of their slips over his shoulder, he felt more than ever like John, leaving his small boys unattended while he went on a hunt. Sam was a grown man now, but being struck down with a stomach flu left him vulnerable. And Dean had been known to worry about him in the best of times. "I'll be back to check on you in a couple of hours. Don't open the door to anyone. If something tries to break in, there's a salt gun on the table, the rest of the on-hand arsenal's in my spare duffel. And... you'll find more milk powder in the fridge."

Sam's mouth twitched. "Yes sir."


	9. Paladin

"Ma'am, this is Agent Sam Watson with the Colorado State Police Department, am I speaking with Ms. Colleen Tracy?"

"You are." Her voice was unmistakable. Sam just hoped that his wasn't.

"Ms. Tracy, I'm calling to let you know we're conducting a follow-up investigation to your aunt's death." He cringed at how unprofessional 'aunt' sounded, but he had no clue was the woman's name was.

There was a short pause on the line, then; "Is this a prank call?"

Sam sucked in a breath. "No ma'am, why do you ask?"

"You're calling from a cell phone."

_Damn caller I.D to the deepest circle of Hell._

Sam forced a good-natured chuckle, mind automatically formulating a cover-story. "I'm a field agent, primarily. The bigwigs are off at a conference this week so the extra workload is split between the rest of us. There's still a lot of field work to do, though, and nowhere near enough time to run back to the station for every call." _Did that satisfy her? It had been a piss-poor save, but surely..._ "I'm sure you understand."

Finally; "My aunt died of a heart attack. How much investigation does that need?"

"We're aware that the death was originally stated to be of natural causes, but similar things have been resurfacing lately as foul play and we've been forced to comb through a lot of cold cases." Sam fumbled his way through the barely-prepared story. "Now, because of that, a lot of the items which were released in her will are now evidence again, and I believe you inherited a large amount of your aunt's belongings."

A hesitant 'yes...'

"Ms. Tracy, this may sound like an odd request, but in order to conduct this case properly, we need to reclaim all items released from our custody." Sam almost laughed at how pompous he sounded. Still, he was impersonating a police officer; that _was_ the idea. "We have special interest in one item in particular - a silver ring with a large stone set in it. Do you know to what I am referring?"

There was a second's hesitation, and if Sam wasn't already convinced of the ring's involvement, he sure was now. When Colleen finally spoke, she was evasive. "Yes... but that ring has been in my possession for a great deal of time. It wouldn't be any good to you now, not for DNA testing, anyway."

"Oh, uh..." Sam had hit a brick wall. It wasn't often that he slipped out of character during an impersonation, but this time, he couldn't think of a damn thing to say. To make things better still, his nausea was beginning to surface once again. He held it back as best he could, but the waves of sickness came stronger and stronger until he was literally holding a hand over his mouth to keep from being sick. Even though he hadn't eaten anything for almost twenty-four hours - besides the warm milk Dean had made him drink last night - Sam's stomach felt so full it might pop any second.

"...Officer?" Colleen's voice reminded him he was still on the phone, and he snapped back to consciousness - for the moment, anyway.

"Right, um..." _Dammit, what had he been saying? Oh, right - the ring._ He spoke in a rush, now REALLY needing his bucket. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Ms. Tracy. That ring would have served as a valuable piece of evidence in the investigation." Colleen sounded as if she was about to say something, but Sam wouldn't let her. He just wanted to be off the phone. Now. "Thank you very much for your cooperation, Ms. Tracy."

He snapped the phone shut, tossed it to the end of his bed and grabbed his bucket in one fluid movement. The dry retching was the worst, so Sam was actually glad when he was able to bring something up.

But, that minor achievement aside, he was still no closer to getting his hands on that ring.

Sam groaned. "This _really_ isn't going how I pictured."

-----------------------

If the steady rain of the night before had been any warning, Dean _really_ should have brought an umbrella. He'd positioned himself under a small cloth canopy outside the fortune teller's tent, but it was doing very little to keep him dry from the very sudden - and very persistent - downpour. He reached up to wipe his forehead, hand coming away covered in runny gunk - a by-product of water mingling with the wax which kept his hair glued up nice and neat.

Dean was pulled out of his thoughts as yet another 'customer' stepped out of the tent into the pouring rain. He was a middle-aged man - roundish, with dark hair like Sam's and a shadow of a goatee. He seemed to be in a hurry, but considering the weather that wasn't exactly shocking.

Dean grumbled a little at the monotony of this job, and stepped forward - once again plastering on a cheesy smile. "Excuse me, sir. Have you considered our unique offer?"

The man waved him away, a tinge of a New York accent making his voice both syrupy and commanding at the same time. "Not interested, thanks man."

As Dean got closer, he sensed something was wrong. The man was practically exuding worry and distress, not to mention the bloodshot, watery look his eyes had. Dean had seen him around before he went in. Buying cotton candy for his daughter, kissing his wife goodbye as she left to take the kids home. He was the classic family man. Happy.

Not anymore. It was Colleen. She did something to upset him, Dean was sure of it.

_Something like a death sentence?_

He sprung forward, intensity rising. "Are you sure? This draw's only open to customers of Colleen Tracy, so you have a huge chance of-"

The man spun around. "You're _working_ with that crackpot? Huh?" He jabbed a thumb at the brightly colored tent.

Dean awkwardly danced around several replies, before settling with a deliberately vague; "We're affiliated..."

"Yeah?" The man wasn't only upset... he was undeniably pissed-off. "Well you tell that freak she ain't no mortician. She got no right messin' with people's heads the way she does."

The indignation, the _fear_ in the man's eyes - in his voice, trembling as he spoke; Dean knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he didn't do something, this man was going to die.

"I'll pass that on." Dean said in a rush, trying the indirect approach one more time. "But are you aware that just by filling out a few details -"

"Listen, I ain't interested in no freakin' lottery." The older man snapped. "Just leave me the hell alone."

_Alright, indirect approach not going so well. Time to switch tactics._

Dean shoved the empty forms into the messenger bag as the man stalked away. He scrambled after him, barely even noticing the way the rain soaked him through within seconds. He slid in the mud a little, but eventually reached the guy and caught his arm. "Listen to me-"

The man spun around, confusion and anger marring his features, but also - yep, there was that fear again. "What the hell?" He pulled his arm from Dean's grasp. "What do you think you're playing at, kid? You carnies got a lot of ner-"

"I'm not a carnie, dude, I'm trying to help you!" Dean let the pleasant '_pardon-me-sir_' façade fall away. "That crazy chick in there, she's the real deal, you hear me? Only in some twisted, self-fulfilling prophet kind of way, she'd gonna make damn sure that whatever bullcrap she fed to you comes true."

_For the moment, it's probably better not to mention that she'd be doing so through a magical ring which she uses to harness ghosts and ghoulies to do her evil bidding. _

_That might not go down so well._

The older man regarded him for a second. "You're out of your goddamn mind, kid."

"You think I'm lying to you?"

"No. I think you're crazy."

Dean struggled against a frustrated urge to take a swing at the man on principle alone. "Yeah? Well guess what, smart-ass; you barely have time to think at all. She gave you the death card? The ace of spades?" The man nodded hesitantly, and the rain kept falling heavily around them. Dean lowered his voice to a harsh growl. "I'm trying to save your friggin' life here!"

Another few moments of dubious consideration from the thus-nameless victim-to-be. "What are you? Some kind of undercover cop? FBI?"

"If that's what it takes, then yeah."

Rain trickled down his face. He held the older man's stare, ignoring the urge to blink water out of his eyes. "If you heard about what happened to that Harmond kid, then you know I'm telling the truth. You're in real danger here. Either you trust me or you don't."

Mention of the late Billy Harmond seemed to trigger something in the man. Some reaction, some form of realization or sudden belief. He eyed Dean once more. "I'm climbin' out on a friggin' limb here..."

"Well I suggest you climb fast." Dean urged. "'Cause I have no idea how long this chick's gonna mess around."

He offered the most trustworthy gaze he could muster - drawing inspiration directly from Sam's sincere puppy-dog eyes. _If there was one thing that kid was good at._ "I don't wanna alarm you, man, but coming with me is your best chance of staying alive."

-----------------------

Once they had taken cover in the mercifully dry Impala, Dean pulled out from the curb, casting several wary glances at the man sitting next to him as he started the drive back to the motel. The man was stiff as a board, and Dean was surprised to find he actually felt sorry for him. The concern, the nerves this guy was showing, the hunter felt the least he could do was chuck his peace of mind a bone or two.

"What's your name?" Dean asked, making the man jump.

"...Marty." He replied after a few moments.

Dean nodded. "I'm Dean." He looked over at the man - no, at _Marty_ - again, taking his eyes off the road only for a second. If this man was supposed to die, he couldn't take any chances with his driving. Marty's posture hadn't relaxed much. "Still don't trust me, huh? I don't blame you, man; in your position I wouldn't trust me either. I don't know what to say to make you feel better, except that I'm the good guy." Dean shrugged. "You don't have to believe me. I hope I'll be able to prove it to you."

Marty still looked a little doubtful. Hell, who could blame the guy?

The tense silence in the car was deafening. The motel they were staying at was only about fifteen minutes away, but Dean could tell this drive was gonna seem far longer. Rain was still whipping at the windscreen, sending rivulets snaking down the glass in thin tendrils.

He flipped his cell phone open, holding it in one hand and the steering wheel in the other. It rang twice before Sam picked up. Good. Any longer and Dean would have been sent into a fit of nerves worrying about his brother.

"Sam? What'd you find out?"

"Well first of all, GirlNextDoor was pretty disappointed that the last few chapters only got two reviews, considering how much attention her other fics getting."

There was a pause on the line. _What?_ Dean rubbed the earpiece with his index finger, clearing any water that might have gotten clogged in there. "Dude, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Especially with all that LimpSam crap everyone seems to love..." Sam continued to muse. His tone sounded vaguely annoyed.

_Alright, now he definitely hadn't heard wrong._ "Are you feeling alright?" He asked, suddenly worried and guilty about leaving Sam alone for so long. He could be running a fever by now, for all he knew. "Delirious at all?"

Dean waited several seconds, but Sam said nothing

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Forget it. What'd you find out about the _ring_?"

"I was getting to that." The younger grumbled. "Turns out she's so attached to it she won't even let it go as forensic evidence. It's got some extreme significance to her - you're definitely barking up the right tree."

"...so you didn't get it?"

"Erm, no." Sam sounded uncomfortable, and Dean found he just couldn't be mad at him. "But I'm telling you, Dean, the oblique approach isn't gonna work on this one."

"So then what's the plan? Both guns blazing? Cause I was kinda hoping to keep artillery on the down-low in the middle of a busy carnival..."

"That's another thing." Sam recalled the last - and possibly most important - detail he'd discovered before his brother rang. "Dean, today is the carnival's last day in town. If we're gonna do something, it has to be soon. It has to be tonight."


	10. The Strange Things in Life

Marty wasn't sure what had made him trust the blonde man in the beat-up leather jacket. For one, he didn't exactly ooze a trustworthy persona. With his rugged appearance, and body language that screamed 'piss off, I ain't talking to you', Marty couldn't think of anyone he would less want to get in a car with. But this guy... there was something else about him. He knew something - something Marty himself could only sense.

Marty had watched as the man pulled the car they were in into an empty parking spot outside Avondale Motor Inn with increasing concern. If this guy was a cop or agent, why the hell would he be staying in a motel? True, he hadn't _said_ he was either of those things... hadn't said who he was at _all_. Just that he was Dean. And he wanted to help.

Dean was the good guy.

He hoped.

* * *

Dean looked over his shoulder at Marty one more time as he turned the key in the lock.

"You alright, man?" Dean asked, trying to sound reassuring. The older man looked pale and afraid. He swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded. Dean smiled coolly. "I swear we're helping you out here."

"'We'?" Marty asked as Dean swung the door open, revealing Sam still propped up in bed. "You didn't say you had a partner."

Dean waved a hand, brushing him off as he closed the door behind them, sealing the motel off again from the pounding rain. "He's more like a sidekick." He nodded towards the younger hunter. "Sam, meet Marty. Colleen's latest expendable."

Sam and Marty exchanged a glance. Sam raised his hand awkwardly with a muttered 'Hi'. Marty returned the gesture. As always, though, the awkward tension between the two men was entirely lost on Dean, and he stood looking between them, grinning stupidly.

"So... how do you guys know about this?" Marty sat down as Dean pulled a chair out for him. "How do you know I'm in danger?"

"It's kind of our job to know these things." Dean said carefully after a moment of thought.

Marty cocked an eyebrow. "So you are cops."

Neither Dean nor Sam said anything, only met one another's eyes with a completely blank expression.

"Then tell me what you know." Marty continued. "This Colleen person... she's a threat?"

Dean nodded. "Chick takes her work a little too seriously. Major inferiority complex or something. She'll do anything to make her readings accurate."

"Including murder." Sam piped up from the bed.

"Which is where you come in." Dean finished, not sure whether a fuller explanation would make the man feel better or worse.

"Like the Hawthorne Effect?" Marty asked after a while.

"Kind of." Sam nodded. "Only, the subject doesn't change his own fate. Colleen'll do it for you."

The older man was taking a moment to let the information sink in, and the brothers allowed it to him. It gave them time to work out how to approach the next part, anyway.

"So... what?" Marty finally spoke. "She hires a bunch of thugs to knife me when I've got my back turned?"

"Not exactly." Dean began awkwardly. Being evasive wouldn't work this time, but he'd damn well try anyway. "She's more Bell Witch than Jack the Ripper."

"...meaning?"

Dean exchanged an apprehensive glance with Sam from under his brow, and continued reluctantly. This is where it could get messy. "Meaning the thugs she hires aren't exactly... alive."

Silence hung heavily in the air. Marty's gaze flicked between the two brothers, trying nervously to pick up the hint of some inside joke he hadn't been let in on. "That's a metaphor, right?" He stammered. "Tell me it's a metaphor. Or some cop-lingo? Code?"

"We're not cops." Sam said suddenly. "That's the first thing you need to know."

"But it _is_ our job to protect you." Dean looked Marty in the eye as he said it.

Marty shifted in his seat, thinking about running, but curious to hear what would come next. "...from what?"

The brothers exchanged a glance, then Dean looked back at the older man. "Something that wants you dead for peanuts."

"You guys are nuts." Marty rocketed out of his seat, but still didn't make a move for the door. "Bull goose loony, I swear to God."

"Please. Please, Marty, just hear us out." Sam held up a hand, imploring. Poor Marty wouldn't stand a chance against those big, round puppy-eyes. "You might not want to believe it but you _need_ to trust us. For your sake."

"No way." Marty rubbed at his receding hairline, shaking his head - a sign of the inward debate. Though he was all gung-ho on the outside, inside, he was beginning to be persuaded. Slowly. "No Goddamn way... give me one good reason why I shouldn't make a run for it right now."

It didn't take long.

"Marty, do you have a family?" Dean asked, keeping his voice steady.

Marty scowled. "Why the hell would I tell you about my family? You guys could be psychos... or worse."

Dean was so damn close to blowing a fuse over this guy. There were skeptics, and then there were don't-believe-a-thing-outside-their-white-picket-fence-skeptics. Still, to keep him safe, they had to keep him calm so he wouldn't storm out and do something they'd all end up regretting.

Like die.

""Or, we could be trying to save your sorry life." Dean struggled to keep his voice level, but it vibrated with the frustration he was covering. "Now how's your wife, your kids, gonna feel when daddy doesn't walk through that door? You stay with us, you're closest to safe you can get. But you step outside and it's a whole different story. She's got you marked. You're not safe, not anywhere, but especially not out there on your own."

"Just give us a chance to convince you we're not crazy." Sam added, using his sincerest-sincere wide-eyed expression. "We'll tell you anything you want to know."

For a while, Marty just stood there, looking between the brothers, looking at the door, out the window, at his shoes. He might have memorized the entire motel room by heart by the time he slowly sank back into the chair, rubbing at his temple again.

"Alright, first question." He glanced over at Sam. "Why the hell're you in bed?"

* * *

Dean had to hand it to him: the man knew his rights. Marty asked new questions and clarified old ones for the next hour and a half, constantly pointing out that, should he refuse their "service", they couldn't hold him against his will. Dean had agreed, but nearly rolled his eyes. Marty was the most nine-to-five guy they'd ever come across.

Finally, he seemed to be satisfied enough to believe, or at least humor them. Then, he asked the one question neither of them knew how to answer.

"So, what's your big plan to save my life?"

It's like when a five-year-old asks you what the word 'rape' means, or 'how's Baxter doing on the happy dog farm up north?' A question innocent from one end, but holding so much more on the other.

"We're kind of spur-of-the-moment guys…" Dean tried, and was met by a disapproving glare from both Sam and Marty.

"We're working on it." Sam amended. "We're still not completely sure what she's capable of, or um, what she… is."

Long pauses were becoming force of habit now. Sam waited through the awkward silence.

"What she _is_?" Marty cocked an eyebrow.

"The thing is, with the kind of power it seems Colleen has… there's no guarantee she's entirely human." Sam explained.

"Oh." Marty was still for a moment, then cradled his head in his hands, eyes tight shut. "Jesus Christ. This is all real, isn't it?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. It was always hard taking away someone's innocence like that.

"We've got until tonight." Dean tried to offer comfort. "And then, we're gonna beat this sucker down."


End file.
